


Paint My Spirit Gold

by isengard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I don't know I just made myself sad, M/M, sort of a drabble that just kept going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bobby, he wasn't just a poker buddy."  -Dean Winchester</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint My Spirit Gold

When Bobby Singer was thirty years old, Rufus Turner helped him bury his wife. He was patient, if tactless, and he stuck around to answer Bobby’s questions and supplement Bobby’s grief with Johnnie Walker Blue Label Scotch. Then he went to help someone else, and Bobby hoped that this time, he’d be able to save them.

When Bobby was thirty years old, he called Rufus Turner on the phone and said he couldn’t just sit and twiddle his thumbs, now that he knew what was really out there. He wanted to help. Rufus refused him twice, and so he’d impersonated a census agent and found Rufus’s house in Vermont. Rufus turned a gun on him when he arrived, instructed him to cut his arm with a silver knife, and watched him drink holy water. Then he invited Bobby inside, and immediately set him to work translating an ancient Celtic text about water demons.

When Bobby was thirty-one, he killed his first monster while Rufus was incapacitated by the creature’s paralytic venom. He carried Rufus to the car, and after the paralysis wore off, Rufus cried like a baby and Bobby found out he had a terrible fear of being helpless. Bobby soothed him as best he could, feeling the other man’s muscles bunch and shake under his hands. He felt the heat of Rufus’s shame against his own cheeks, and he brushed tears from Rufus’s smooth, dark skin, whispering to him that it was okay, that he was going to take care of him, that they were in this together. They fell asleep huddled together on the couch, and when Bobby woke up, the warmth of Rufus was gone, but the soft groans he heard coming from the bedroom left him practically sweating.

When Bobby was thirty-two, he slashed his hand open with a knife to distract a vampire that was about to feed on Rufus. The vamp half-drained him before Rufus took its head off, and Rufus cursed Bobby out at the top of his lungs, pushing him backwards until he was pinned against the gate, dizzy and out of breath from the loss of blood and from Rufus being _so close_ to him. He felt Rufus’s fury rolling off him in waves as he chewed him out for trying to be a “goddamn martyr”. Then he stumbled forward into Rufus and smelled the blood on his collar, and he dragged his lips up to Rufus’s mouth, and the older man relented and groaned into him. 

When Bobby was thirty-two, about an hour later, he was watching Rufus shudder under him, hips straining on the mottled sheets of their motel bed. He was listening to the wild rain against the windows, the shallow, rough exhales coming out of Rufus and himself, the occasional monosyllabic affirmation coupled with a whine or a gasp, the steady slap of skin on skin. He was swearing his allegiance to Rufus in every way he knew how; worshipping him, fucking him, watching him come undone and helping him put himself back together. Rufus kept his eyes closed almost the whole time, but afterwards, he opened them and looked at Bobby like he never wanted to look at anything else ever again. And when the storm ended and daylight came, the spell was broken, but it was springtime in the south, and another storm was just around the corner.

When Bobby was thirty-four, he and Rufus decided to spend some time apart and be with women. After two weeks, Bobby met exactly one, and he found he just couldn’t seal the deal. Although he did manage to save her from a haunted pair of ice skates. When he got home from that failed encounter, he found Rufus asleep in his bed, and he breathed a great sigh of relief and crawled in to join him. They agreed it was better for them to be together as they were, not because they were gay or anything, but because they were both hunters, and it made things less messy.

When Bobby was thirty-seven, things got messy. Rufus’s little sister was kidnapped by a demon in Omaha, and Bobby went in hot, and she got mortally wounded in the crossfire. He watched in horror as Rufus knelt beside her, rocking her gently, gritting his teeth in anguish and holding back sobs as she passed. They burned her together, and Rufus left that same night, swearing to the heavens and beyond that he would never forgive Bobby, and that he would never speak to him again.

When Bobby was forty and helping Sam with his history homework, he got a phone call on a line that he hadn’t used in nearly three years. His hands were shaking when he answered it, and sure enough, Rufus was on the other end, yelling animatedly about a group of skinwalkers on a crime spree that were headed straight for Sioux Falls, which he knew because he was in town already. Bobby met him at a coffeeshop and Rufus greeted him like an old friend, and Bobby was confused, and sort of hurt for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, but he let Rufus lead. They headed the skinwalkers off before they got to town and killed all but one that managed to get away. Afterwards, Rufus stayed for a few days and ate all the food in Bobby’s fridge. He found out Rufus had moved back to Vermont and was hunting out there. He eventually also found out that Rufus wasn’t seeing anyone, nor had he at any point since his sister died. Bobby admitted that he hadn’t either, and on the night that Rufus was supposed to leave, they split a bottle of Blue Label and fell into bed together. Rufus left bite marks on Bobby’s shoulders and Bobby felt the sting, but didn’t care. He clung to Rufus like a drowning man, pressing chapped lips to every scar on Rufus’s body, the ones he knew and the ones he didn’t. Then Rufus left with the dawn, and Bobby went back to translating an exorcism handbook from the fourteenth century.

When Bobby was forty-six, he ran into Rufus in Orange County on a hunt. They killed three witches together, and when Rufus’s stolen car was impounded, they rode back to South Dakota together in Bobby’s Charger. They hit a storm in the middle of the Nevada desert, but they didn’t stop at any motels. Bobby gave him the keys to an old Bronco he’d been teaching Dean to work on, under the condition that Rufus brought it back. And Rufus got a funny look on his face, but he promised that he would.

When Bobby was forty-nine, Rufus brought the car back with a body in the trunk. They buried the deceased werewolf in the patch of woods behind Bobby’s place, and Bobby told Rufus all about Sam and how he was going to be a lawyer, and about Dean and how he was…well, Dean. Rufus’s face was lined as he smiled and Bobby realized that it was the face of an old man, that they were _both_ old men, that he was probably in love with Rufus and probably had been since they started hunting together, and that it wasn’t ever going to go away. He’d die still loving Rufus, and frankly, any day in this line of work could be his last day, and he _wanted_ to tell Rufus all these things, but instead he just invited him inside for a Scotch, and he accepted, and they spent a full weekend blissed out in Bobby’s bedroom, maybe making up for lost time, maybe giving it their all in order to finally say goodbye.

When Bobby was fifty, John Winchester died. He tried to call Rufus, but Rufus didn’t answer.

When Bobby was fifty-one, Sam Winchester died, and then Dean brought him back. He thought about calling Rufus, but he never managed to finish dialing.

When Bobby was fifty-one, he reached out to Rufus for information on Bela Talbot. Rufus answered on the fourth ring and agreed to find out what he could. Bobby was aching to go out to Vermont himself, but he sent Dean instead, because Bobby’d always sworn to Rufus that he would know Dean one day, and since Dean’s time was coming to an end, it might’ve been their last chance.

When Bobby was fifty-two, Dean was gone and Sam was in the wind. He stopped answering the phone; stopped getting out of bed even. He was thinking about dousing his sheets in gasoline and going to bed with a lit cigar when Rufus kicked down his door and smacked him upside the head so hard he saw stars. He ranted for several minutes at Bobby, shouting that he’d thought he was dead and that it was damned inconvenient for him to drive halfway across the country just because Bobby couldn’t be bothered to answer the stupid _phone_. He told Bobby that he was under no circumstances allowed to die before him, and Bobby stood there with a confused look on his face until Rufus finally threw up his hands in exasperation and walked over to Bobby, laying a weathered palm down over the other man’s heart, sliding an arthritic knuckle over the unkempt wires of Bobby’s beard. They kissed softly, chastely, and then Rufus went right back to yelling at him.

When Bobby was fifty-four, he was in a wheelchair and the apocalypse was upon them. Rufus called for backup, and Bobby sent the boys, furious that he couldn’t go and help protect his loved ones like they could. They beat War, and when Rufus came around to find out why Bobby hadn’t come himself, Bobby thought he’d die from shame. But Rufus didn’t even bat an eye, just inquired as to how he’d gotten in the chair, then changed the subject and went right into a series of apocalypse jokes, each worse than the last, and Bobby couldn’t help but crack a smile. Rufus caressed Bobby’s hand gently with his and said they were both foolish old men, and promised to stay in closer touch. As it turned out, “closer touch” meant Bobby had to bail Rufus out of a hundred bizarre predicaments, but it was worth it. It was almost like they were working together again.

When Bobby was fifty-five, he found himself partnered with Rufus for the last time. They shared a hotel room like they’d used to, and though their bodies were old and uncooperative, they found ways to be together. Rufus introduced him to the magic of Viagra, and they were both grouchy and sore in the morning, but their bickering made Bobby happier than he’d been in years. He found the courage to finally apologize to Rufus about what’d happened in Omaha, and Rufus assured him in no uncertain terms that he would never be forgiven. Which was okay; it was an absolute, and Bobby could live with that. If anything, it felt like a promise. _I will never forgive you. I’m in love with you_. He’d thought, as long as they were putting their cards on the table, it couldn’t hurt to finally say it.

When Bobby was fifty-five, an evil worm slid into his mind and blacked it out. When he came to, he was covered in sweat and bile and he was pretty sure he’d soiled his pants, and Rufus was dead.

When Bobby was fifty-five, Sam and Dean helped him bury his best friend’s ashes in a little Jewish cemetery in Vermont, next to his sister. They drove through a storm on the way back to South Dakota, and Bobby was glad they’d taken separate cars, because it meant he could pull off the road and shout and cry and beg, telling the storm everything he should’ve told Rufus when he’d had the chance.

When Bobby was fifty-six, he took a bullet to the brain, and Rufus’s spirit stood with him as the horrors of his past confronted him one by one. It seemed that he and Rufus could finally be together, once he decided to cross over and die. And when Rufus encouraged him to face his reaper, he could see that same hope mirrored in the face of his friend. He wanted it more than anything in the world, and that’s how he knew it wasn’t meant to be. He did not yet deserve peace. Not until he’d helped Sam and Dean defeat the Leviathans and set the world right again.

When Bobby was drifting in the timelessness of death, he found that once again, Rufus had been right. His wrath got the better of him, and he helped Sam and Dean lay him to rest for good. He hoped his connections with the angels would at least afford him the privilege of being able to watch over them from above.

When Bobby arrived in Heaven, there was wind and rain and thunder and lightning and every manner of wild element imaginable surrounding him, and he knew exactly where he was. He walked down the road until he got to the motel, and he shut the door behind him against the wind, shivering and squinting in the dark. A lamp turned on next to the bed, and Rufus was illuminated beside it; twenty-five years younger, his shirt unbuttoned like it always was back then.

“Bobby Singer,” he said, amusement playing across his features at Bobby’s unconcealed longing. “About damn time.”


End file.
